


Supernatural shorts

by Xparrot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: Miscellaneous ficlets and snippets from my Tumblr.





	1. during 9x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles?"

**Author's Note:**

> Various fic under 1K words from [my SPN sideblog on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic). Most of these are episode-related, often written between episodes so quickly jossed. I'm posting them here to satisfy the completionist in me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/post/150231623336/originally-posted-as-a-random-bit-of-meta-sam)]

Sam knows better than anyone the cost of dealing with demons.

But he’s just driven his brother’s dead body back to the bunker; he’s wiped the blood off his face and laid him on the memory-foam mattress that Dean was so proud of, in Dean’s own room, with perfectly leveled hooks for every firearm but no frames for the tattered photos on the bedside table (if they were framed he couldn’t fit them in his wallet).

Sam has carried his brother’s body before. But this is the first time he’s ever had to bring him home.

The bottle’s from the back of the kitchen shelf. Sam doesn’t recognize the label. Maybe it was shoved back there in favor of something better, or maybe Dean was saving it for a special occasion. Sam pours himself a triple and takes it like a shot, one long swallow, not tasting it.

This isn’t how it ends, with a Mark on his brother’s arm and a blade in his brother’s chest. With a silent room and a thousand accusations and admissions and apologies left to say between them. This won’t be.

There are no good ways to bring Dean back. That’s okay. Sam knows plenty of bad ones.


	2. during 12x01 "Keep Calm and Carry On"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/post/151029408971/afterafter-dick-roman-blew-up-after-the-impala)]

After—after Dick Roman blew up, after the Impala was fixed, after the dog, after they bought the house—Sam would try, every so often. Dig his nails into the nearly healed scar across his palm, watching everything around him, this new life he was making for himself.

Sometimes he drew blood, but everything stayed real.

 _Stone number one_ , Dean had told him.

Now, as Sam sits in this chair, dazed, bleeding, waiting for the next round of questions, he works his wrists against the ropes, until behind his back he can curl his fingers around his hand and squeeze.


	3. after 12x02 "Mamma Mia"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/post/152108013861/its-quarter-to-midnight-on-the-third-night-deans)]

It’s quarter to midnight on the third night Dean’s been up – or is it the fourth? What with the sun going out, he’s kind of lost track – but Sam’s back, the bunker’s secure; it’s definitely time for him to hit the sack.

Except when Dean gets to his room, he sees the photos on his nightstand, and suddenly sleep isn’t as important as showing them, sharing them. He told Mom so much of the bad, didn’t have time for any of the good.

On the way to the room he’d haphazardly pointed her to – two nights ago? It feels like two minutes and two centuries – he stops by the kitchen, grabs a couple beers. Then a third, because Sam should be here for this, too.

Only Sam’s one step ahead, as usual, and Dean smiles as he hears the murmurs down the hall. Slows his pace because Sam’s voice is dropped low, hard to make out over his footsteps.

So he hears Mom clearly, when she says, “Dean says you got out of hunting.”

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it. That Sam should have been out, stayed out. At least one of them grown up into the life she’d wanted for them, grown into the man she’d wanted them to be. Died hoping they’d become.

Whatever Sam answers, Dean doesn’t hear it. He’s already headed back to the kitchen. Sets the beers on the counter. He should go to bed.

He pops the cap on one instead, and accidentally drops the pictures, sliding from his sleep-clumsy fingers to the floor. When he crouches to pick them up, his mother’s face smiles up at him from the scratched and wrinkled print.

He’s seen that smile so many times, it’s burned into the back of his mind. But she doesn’t look anything like that, not really. Not faded but full color. Her eyes are blue, not his and Sam’s green-hazel mix. He hadn’t remembered that.

He can still remember the taste of her meatloaf. The beer’s not strong enough to burn away that sense memory. Even if they had a PigglyWiggly around here, they probably don’t sell it anymore. Not that recipe.

Mom’s back. Sam’s back too, now, their family all together under one roof.

Being this happy is hard.


	4. alternate to 12x11 "Regarding Dean"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Speculation fic based on spoilers for "Regarding Dean," written before the episode aired, based on the idea that Dean would be "de-aged."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/post/154741333601/justjensenanddean-question-can-the-show-give)]

“Where’s Sam?” Dean demands, and Sam can just, just barely remember that tone, belligerence stretched thin over shaky fear. A child’s impotent defiance, that he knows will be overridden by adult authority, but still must try. Dean when he was eight, maybe nine—the cusp of Sam’s own memories. Long before he knew the truth; just old enough to know to hide behind his bigger brother when he was frightened.

Dean glances behind himself now, as if for a phantom brother no longer there, even as he keeps one eye on Sam. Staring up at him, shoulders protectively hunched, putting more inches between them. Dean may still have his adult height, but his posture, his quavering voice, the distrust in his eyes—that betrays his age.

Sam doesn’t know how he ever thought any of this was funny.

“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asks again, and Sam takes a breath, stoops to meet Dean’s eyes. Holds his own flinch, when Dean starts back from the motion.

It’s gotten harder every time, and not only because Dean is less convinced every time, is that much further away from being able to recognize his little brother in this giant stranger. Sam goes to introduce himself once more, and finds his throat too dry to speak.

He swallows, starts again. “Sammy’s fine, Dean,” he says, and it’s easier to say than anything he’s tried before. “He’s safe, you don’t have to worry about him anymore. I’m–I’m a friend of your father’s. He told me to watch out for you—said to tell you Han Solo dropped me off in the Millennium Falcon.”

At that, Dean’s tense shoulders finally relax, and Sam thanks his brother’s foresight, for remembering to tell him that old code phrase. Dean looks him up and down, and his mouth twists into a smile that’s mocking and too open but painfully, joyfully familiar. “So do I call you Chewbacca?”


	5. after 13x23 "Let the Good Times Roll"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pure speculation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[on Tumblr](https://idontneedasymbol.tumblr.com/post/174060981801/and-this-is-what-it-comes-to-maybe-what-it-always)]

And this is what it comes to, maybe what it always will come to: Sam in the Cage, standing alone before an archangel.

Rowena outside is holding the door cracked, ready to slam shut, and Jack and his mother and the other Charlie are shielding the witch from the hordes of Hell who are just discovering their invasion. Jack’s used up most of his hard-earned juice, and Charlie’s almost exhausted her repertoire of newbie spells. They don’t have much time.

That’s all right; Sam didn’t come here for any protracted negotiations. “So will you do it?”

Michael tips his head to the side, too far to look natural. In this projection of the Cage he looks like Sam’s father, but younger than when Sam knew him, and gaunt, cheeks hollowed, tendons standing out on the back of his hands. “You’re not made for me,” he says, seemingly calm, but there’s a shaky edge to his voice that makes the hair stand on end. “I won’t be as strong. Not hardly.”

“I know,” Sam says. “Will you do it?”

Michael tilts his head in the other direction, clamps his teeth together and pulls his lips back to bare them. His tongue flickers behind their gravestone-white. “This other—this other me. He stole my Sword. He murdered my little brother. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Sam says. Lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, ready. “Then, _yes_.”


End file.
